A Heroic Endeavor
by Cannibalistic Skittles
Summary: Heroes aren't supposed to need any help, right? They're supposed to be self-sufficient, tough, bold and unafraid, right? Right. Well, it seems poor Corrin's missed this memo…   NPC character romances in future chapters, since I'm an unabashed fangirl.
1. Chapter One: A Fine Beginning

A Heroic Endeavor

A/N: Ah, the obligatory 'introduce-the-character-and-directly-quote-the-game' first chapter. How we love yet loathe thee. Alas, it is necessary, and I hope the few who read this by mistake will forgive me for it.  
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The best stories start with dragons.  
'_Dragons like this one,_' she thinks, staring into an eye twice the size of a dinner plate, and then, '_and the poor adventurer that it eats.'  
_Her grip is tight on the wooden staff, and she braces herself, whether to fight or flee, she isn't sure. Her heart pounds uncomfortably against her ribcage and just when she thinks she's going to become charbroiled mage™, the dragon lowers its head and a moglin hops off. The moglin pats the scaled ridge above the dragon's eye before looking to where it came from, saying cheerily, "the path is clear, Priestess!"

As she gapes, a woman in white steps off elegantly, grasping a chest with intricate designs made of something glossy and black.  
When she sees the girl, she nods graciously and says, "please pardon us friend, we are just passing through."  
With that, she continues onwards, the red moglin trailing after her.  
The dragon raises its head and eyes the girl in front of it for a moment. It seems to reach some sort of conclusion, and the corners of its mouth stretch up in a rather disconcerting smile. It abruptly turns it's body and extends its wings, the force of which knocks her back a good foot.  
She's watching the dragon fade into the distance when she has the thought to escort the visitor to the forest. Rubbing the back of her head absentmindedly, she starts down the path the woman—what was it the moglin said? Priestess?—had walked.

'_If she's a priestess, what is she doing out here? There's not much to see… and I should know. Just passing through then? But to where? And why? More importantly, how far does she think that dress is going to stay that ethereal shade of white if she's going through here? Then again, I should talk. I mean, white's not even my color, and it—'  
_She's brought from her wandering thoughts by the words, "oh my. Who put a carpet in the middle of the forest?"  
A voice that is much more panicked cries, "oh noes! This is not a carpet Priestess… it's a gorillaphant!"

As if to emphasize this point, there's a loud snarl along with several thuds and the sounds of snapping twigs as something heavy presumably lunges forward.  
"I will protect you, Priestess!" declares a small voice.  
Not a moment later, there's a loud 'thwack', and something small hits her knees and makes them bow. Her eyes widen as her legs buckle and she bends unwillingly, and she finds herself looking at the little moglin, rubbing his head. He opens his eyes and latches on to her leg, attempting to pull her forward amid garbled words.  
"Hey, hey! C'mon, I'll go help save your friend!" She runs, following the noises over a slight incline in the land, and there they are.

The Priestess is standing, her head tilted at the sight of the roaring beast in front of her.  
The girl wonders fleetingly what the Priestess is doing, but the gorillaphant is first on her list. She sends a spark of electricity at it, barely enough to scratch it, but effective in getting its attention.  
She manages to keep it at bay for the most part, using her staff to put some distance between them and throwing spells when she could.  
Between this and Twilly smacking it with his stick, it seems to be enough to bring it down. It gives one last swipe at the girl with its tusks, slicing her arm, before she throws another spark at it and it falls, shaking the ground with its impact.

The girl leans on her staff, and rubs her arm, glancing back up at the priestess who has begun to speak.  
She smiles warmly, and says, "thank you for saving me, brave mage. Might I know the name of my hero?"  
Before a response can be formed, the little moglin pipes up, at the side of the Priestess once more, "but priestess… you said her name was Corrin and she's the one who is destined to save the world!"  
Corrin blinks. "…what?" she asks.  
The woman pushes Twilly back with her foot in a movement that seems designed to seem nonchalant. It doesn't work. The woman gives a short laugh before she informs Corrin, "alas, we are out of time. Good mage, I must ask an important favor of thee. Would you please let Captain Rolith know that we're taking the shortcut? He's just ahead in Oaklore Keep. I am certain we will cross paths again."  
"Especially since she is going to take that black dragon box…" Twilly adds.  
The priestess sighs, "Twilly…" And she walks off, moglin in tow.

Corrin is left standing there, finger raised, mouth agape, looking quite taken aback. A moment passes and she slowly turns to look down the path to the left. A worn wooden sign proclaims this to be the path to Oaklore.

This really wasn't what she had in mind when she wished for an adventure.


	2. Chapter Two: Drakath Appears

A/N: The second chapter. Marginally better. You might not know this (because you're not reading this story anyway), but I usually write in past tense. If you see any sentences written in conflicting tenses, tell me, yeah? This is an experiment of sorts.  
[1] I apologize for the overuse of a thesaurus, I just heard this word… it means 'to be drained of blood'. Yeesh, that's an unpleasant prospect.  
-.-.-

Corrin had no sooner arrived in Oaklore than she sought out the Captain of the guard. He wasn't hard to spot, especially since he looked like one of the knights in Corrin's books: tall, muscled, fair-haired, slightly agitated. Okay, so most of the knights she read about were actually quite cheerful, but three out of four wasn't bad.  
Getting his attention was… slightly harder. At the moment he was engaged in a conversation with another knight.  
"Um… sir?" she tried, with no response. "…Sir?" she said again, slightly louder this time. He continued talking.  
"Sir. Sir!" she tried, now a bit louder than she normally spoke, but to no avail.  
Irritated now, she yelled, "sir! I am very sorry to interrupt, but I have a message from the Priestess!"  
This had the effect of not only drawing the Captain's attention, but the notice of all the knights in hearing distance.  
When she spoke again, her voice had softened, "the… the priestess said to give you a message..." she gulps, and in an effort to get it over with, her words become choppy and slightly slurred, if at least spoken with more volume, "she said she's taking a shortcut so she not coming here, she's continuing on to Falconreach, and…" She trails off. The Captain's face is turning an alarming shade of purple, and it takes a moment for him to speak—or rather, to bellow.  
"WHAT?"  
"Uh," is all she can say, not having expected this outcome.  
"You saw Lady Celestia on your way here? Why did you not tell me sooner! (She ignored this) And she isn't going to stop here at the keep?" His tone is growing increasingly frantic, "the forest is crawling with bandits that are looking for her. She is in grave danger... you must go after her!" The look in his eyes is urgent as he says this.  
Corrin could only nod in mute surprise, stumbling over her robes in an attempt to flee, bolting back to the crossroads then onwards. Leaves brush against her as her arms push back errant branches, and she wonders how she got herself into this mess.  
As the trees fall away into a narrow, but clearer, path, she hears voices, and she runs towards them.

Here the trees really did seem to fall away, opening into a large, clear area, reminiscent more of a meadow than a break in the forest.  
And here she sees Twilly, attempting to maintain a defensive pose between the priestess—Lady Celestia, she supposes—and a man. His appearance gives the look of someone not unaccustomed to dealing with the underhanded side of things, and she's struck with the errant thought, '_so this is what a bandit looks like.'  
_His clothes are not torn, though, and she gets the impression that they're well cared for.  
And... he's holding a sword.

Lady Celestia sees her first, and she calls, "Corrin! We must protect the Black Dragon Box at all costs!"  
Corrin nods. She doesn't know what in it, or what it does, but for the first time, the priestess' words seem _urgent_, and so she says, addressing the stranger, "look, I don't know who you are or why you want the box, but—"  
The man cuts her off, scowling. "My name is DRAKATH! I am the leader of the Darkwolf bandits and the rightful ruler of this land. That box is the key to my throne, and there's no way that I'm letting a peasant like you keep it from me. Stand down or, like the trash that you are, you will be blown away by the winds of my great destiny!"

Corrin narrows her eyes and purses her lips at this. "You know, I was just going to take the box and leave, but you just made it personal." She grips her staff with both hands, bringing it in front of her, "let's see what you got then."

Drakath scowls and calls out, "get her!"

And just like that, two others are there, one of them jumping from the foliage, the other simply stepping out of the shadows.  
And all three look big enough to crush her into powder.

'_…now that's unfair.'_

The minion on Drakath's right is the one to act first, the one who crashed through bushes gracelessly now springing towards her, blade in hand.

She feels a burst of adrenaline, muscles quivering in her knees, her elbows, her fingers, and she gives an initial twist of her wrists to set her weapon in motion, then raises it and swings.

To her surprise, she swings true, and the staff hits his skull with enough force to make a very audible crack, and he slumps to the ground, either dead or unconscious.  
This action is enough to give her pause—what is she _doing_? She may have just killed a man, and for what?—and this gives the other an opening to leave a long gash down her right arm.  
She cries out and drops her staff to clutch at the wound. When her fingers feel the warmth of blood, she flings her hand out, a blast of wind knocking away her assailant.  
Then another, and another, and another until he drops to his knees, unable to breathe.

And then there was one.

He stands where he had been, sword at the ready.  
She clenches the wooden rod with her left hand, the blood dripping down her right arm making it ineffectual.

And then he's running towards her, and she's flinging spells at him—static shocks, a pleasant breeze, a pebble—and he slashes with his sword. She ducks, which she realizes might not be the best idea, as the blow that he had intended for her neck instead slices a thin line above her eye.

She raises her staff as a shield, and his sword comes down on it. Splinters of wood fall as its nearly chopped in half.

Frantically, she sorts through the remainder of spells she's read about, crafting a ball of witch light, no, turning a mouse into a frog (men came later), no, and wait—an advanced spell, but maybe-

A jet of flame sputters from her fingertips, catching loose bits of fabric and sparking around him. He jumps back, the sword slipping from his hands as he bats at the flames, and she takes advantage of this.

She swings her battered weapon in a wide arc towards him, and he moves back again. She holds her position as he backtracks to extinguish the flames, and they're now where they started.  
He coughs, then glares. If looks could kill, she'd be exsanguinated[1]. Slowly.

But as his sword is behind her, and he has no idea whether she has any more spells like that one, he is, for the moment, beaten.  
When he realized this his dark look becomes murderous, and he growls, "Impossible! You got lucky this time, mage!"

Her position makes her bold, and she scoffs. "Luck had nothing to do with it…and the name is Corrin. Remember it."

She's disturbed to see his mouth twist in a sardonic smile, and he says, "oh, I will. You can count on that."  
There's a puff of black smoke and he disappears.

Despite herself, Corrin feels a silly grin take over her face. She had never used magic so effectively before, and against three opponents, no less.

A slight noise draws her attention back to the priestess.  
She gives a half-bow. "Lady Celestia, I'm glad that I got to you in time."

"Thank you, I am grateful for the rescue. Alas, the box was taken by a sneevil while you were busy smack-talking."  
Corirn's eyes widen, "What? Why didn't you say something?"  
Lady Celestia shrugs. "Well, you were really on a roll. I didn't want to interrupt you."  
"But…I…wh…"  
"You must recover the black dragon box before it falls into the wrong hands. Travel to the town of Falconreach and meet with Twilly. He has friends who will be able to help you find that sneevil."  
"Alright. I will go to Falconreach. But what about you?" asks Corrin.  
Lady Celestia looks thoughtful. "Well… if you are going after the box, then… I am going to teleport back home and have some tea."

And another puff of smoke, white this time and with it, a scent of summer breeze. When it clears, Corrin is alone.

Right then! All that was needed was to get to Falconreach, and then this whole mess could be sorted out! Which… was an extremely long walk.  
And to get to it...she would have to take a separate path that started… back at Oaklore.

She groans. This day just keeps getting better.


	3. Chapter Three: Wounds and a Knight

Chapter Three

A/N: Ah, this one's better. New characters, and now some direction. Even though I've lost you with the useless first chapter.  
And—I know some might be a bit irritated with the fact that I am suggesting there are working pipes, but considering all the other anachronisms present in-canon, I didn't think this was too much of a stretch. (Besides, aqueducts existed centuries ago, so it *could* be that they are just directing the water there—whatever you like.)  
-.3.-.3.-.3.-  
Corrin walked back to Oaklore in what can only be described as a trudge.  
Low-hanging branches had caught her hair, plucking out strands when the limbs were strong, breaking off thin pieces when they were not.  
Mud was smeared on her clothes and a streak of it painted her face. Her right sleeve had been torn to ribbons, and blood marred the white fabric, the color looking odd with the red that already bordered the robe.  
She was exhausted, and her muscles ached, and she just wanted a hot bath and a comfy bed.  
By the time she passed through the gates, she was on her last legs. She aims for the light shining out of an open door, walking at an angle to intercept someone.  
"Found her. 's fine," she mutters as she passes the Captain. She does not see his reaction, but she can't bring herself to care, preoccupied with hoping her luck will hold out for slightly longer and the building will turn out to be somewhere she can rest, or bathe, or _something_.  
She pauses a few feet from the entrance, wondering what to do.

A figure in black armor pushes off from a stone wall. Despite the color differences, Corrin recognizes the Knights of the Pactogonal Table symbol on the helmet, and she allows herself to relax.  
"You are Corrin, correct?"  
"Er…yes-?"  
"Then come with me."  
The woman—for despite the helmet, the pitch is a bit too high, and though the hand that grasps her own is rough with calluses, the fingers are slim—pulls her into the building, and Corrin is acutely aware of the hair that has fallen from its braid and the mud that adorns her and weight down her robes.  
Mercifully, there is no lull in the conversations, and she is pushed to sit at a table in the back.

The woman removes her helmet, and loose curls spill out, of a darker blonde than her own, but not gold. The woman examines Corrin, her dark eyes lingering on the many cuts and bruises. A slight frown mars her features, and she glances behind here. "Wait here," she instructs, and she sets off to the front of the room. Corrin takes this opportunity to observe her surroundings.

The room is lit by the fire that blazes near the front, kept in place by the stone around it.

Where the light doesn't quite reach, there are candles, not the thin tapering ones she's used to, but squat stumps with melted wax pouring down the sides in rivulets.

People—off-duty knights, most likely—sit at tables and laugh as they knock back mugs of what might be alcohol.

The table shakes and she turns. The woman is back, with a some rags and a white bowl that she sets down.  
"Hold still," she instructs, and Corrin watches as she dips one of the rags into the bowl. It comes out soaked, and the woman dabs at the many scrapes on Corrin's face. The liquid smells of sharp mint and faint sweet lemon. It burns for an instant where it touches, before the sensation is replaced with the dull ache that throbs around half-healed wounds.  
The woman begins to speak, her eyes still fixed on her work. "My name is Chiro. As you may have guessed, I am a knight of the Pactogonal Table."  
Corrin blinks, and asks, "are women even allowed to be knights?"  
Chiro pauses in her actions, "'are women allowed to be'—YES." She resumes her task, though, seeming more exasperated than insulted.  
Still, Corrin says, "I meant no offense, and I don't doubt that its true. I've just never seen a knight who wasn't a man."  
"No, because we're just not as common. Most of the boys around here grew up wanting to be a knight, because that's what they see. A lot of the ones here are still in training, still deciding whether or not this is the life for them. Most of the girls knew when they were younger. There are others within the Keep, in fact."  
She smiles then and says, "but you won't believe the time I had trying to convince the older ones not to call me 'lady'. It's a fine title for a merchant or a noble, but enemies are admittedly less terrified when facing 'Lady Knight'. And you, Corrin? How did you come to be in the company of the illustrious Lady Celestia?"  
"I guess I was just in the right place at the right time." She thinks about that then slowly adds, "or in the wrong place."  
"Why would you say that?"  
"I don't even know what I'm doing. The only reason this is happening, to me anyway, is because I was there." She sighs. "I'm just glad it'll be over soon. Tomorrow, I'll just have to find the box and bring it to Lady Celestia."

"Why don't you let me go with you? Guide you through the last steps of your journey?"  
"Really? But…aren't you needed here?"

"Naah. We haven't been threatened by any one group for months, and there's enough here to defend the Keep if that were to change. A day won't hurt, and I've traveled that path before. Captain Roland wouldn't want someone if the favor of the priestess to fall, so he should agree when I petition him about it. There's no reason to keep me here, and he doesn't like those who stand idle. If I did, he'd want me gone. Besides," she flashes a smile, "I kind of grate his nerves."

~0-.-0-.-0-.-0-.-0-.-0-.-0~

Chiro had been instrumental in getting a room. She had already spoken a few words to the man she called 'Sir Loin', and when she gestured Corrin over, he asked her if she was indeed in need of board.  
"I don't… I don't have any coin…" she'd started, but he snorted and gestured around the room.  
"Neither do they, but they get by fine. They earn their keep with their deeds, and from what Chiro's said, you're doing the same. You're free to stay before you leave for Falconreach."  
When Corrin's expression remained distressed, he laughed and said, "if you still feel sore about it, I've got some things that need doing, and you can take care of 'em before you depart. Now off with you, I'll not have you stumbling around before your journey."

And that had been that.  
Then Chiro led her upstairs to an empty room where she was able to slump onto the edge of the bed.  
Chiro graciously gave her a few moments to let weariness take over before she had said, "now, I'll need your robe to have it cleaned—do you mind changing here or should I step out?"  
Corrin had shook her head. In other circumstances she might have hesitation, felt embarrassed even, but she had been simply too tired to care. Besides, she did at least have _some_ clothes on underneath, and so she peeled off the white robe—now closer to grey, anyway—which Chiro accepted, then wished her good night, suggested she use the adjoining washroom, and left.

With Chiro gone, Corrin was left free to examine the room.  
It's quiet, firstly, and that itself is no small feat. A bed with a quilt in shades of browns and ruddy reds stands with its headboard just below a curtained window. If she stands looking in from the door, it's a direct line.  
The bed is flanked by end tables, standing battered but tall.  
Her staff is propped up against the right wall, her pack of assorted trinkets lying before it.

Set in the center of the left wall is a door, which reminds Corrin of Chiro's early suggestion.  
She crosses the room and finds behind the door a washroom, containing a mid-length mirror as well as a reasonable sized bath.

She wonders idly where an inn would find the coin—or the reason—to add such extravagances to each room, before shrugging it off. Fire mages and sand are plentiful, she supposes, and Pactogonal knights treated well.

She can now feel the ache of her muscles set in even as her mind begs for the release of sleep, but she has wounds she must tend to, grime that will begin to fester and suppurate if not removed.

It takes some time for water to fill the tub, but it's just long enough to comb out the worst of the tangles in her hair, and to wipe away a layer of dirt and scum caking the otherwise ivory soap.

Corrin heaves a relieved sigh, rolling her shoulders as the water washes over her. The water comes out heated, which is a pleasant surprise, and she is content to simply bask in its warmth for a few moments, able to pretend she is wholly unharmed.

When she feels she is in danger of falling asleep, she begins her task.  
She tries her legs first, which are, while sore from the abnormal amount of walking she has been through, relatively unscathed. Her torso is easier, the blood from various minor cuts softening and flaking off with the dirt. Her right arm and back are clean with similar ease and efficiency.  
It's when she gets to her left shoulder that she slows. She hisses when she sees the extent of the damage, but drips water on it anyway as a hesitant start. It's bruised, and the skin is broken in numerous places, leaving a patchwork of angry, scabbed skin that burns at all contact. When her third attempt to clean it causes it to bleed anew, she gives up and focuses on cleaning the rest of her without moving that arm too much.  
She dunks her head under the slowly cooling water, scratching at her scalp to remove the grime then surfacing for air. She has to repeat this process half a dozen times before she is satisfied.

She stays there for what feels like hours but is really only ten minutes, pressing her fingers to the sides of the tub whenever the water gets too cold, warming it with a lessened fire spell, until she knows she must reluctantly leave the water and return to the open air.  
She pulls the plug and steps out.  
The towel left nearby is thick and rough against her skin, but it suppresses most of her shivers, and for that, she is grateful. Outside this room, the night is warm, and so she dresses in undergarments and a loose cotton chemise, one of the only spare articles of clothing she had the forethought to bring.  
As she pulls this on, she catches a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, and pauses. A bruise purples a mottled line from her nose to her cheekbone. Her upper lip is swollen, and she can now see the full extent of the damage to her shoulder. It peppers across her shoulder blade and halfway down her back, minor incision small enough not to feel their presence against the sharper stab from other wounds, but which have pinked and bled nonetheless. She frowns, leaning in to examine it more closely.  
She can vaguely recall the sting of a broadsword as the flat end struck a lucky blow.  
'_Why though?_' She wonders, '_I've never been hurt so bad in all the years I've lived…then that priestess comes_ _and in one day, I'm fighting more than I ever have in my life._' She frowns, …_what am I fighting _for?'

And then she shakes her head, because puzzling over it now will only deprive her of sleep, and she's not likely to reason well when so tires.  
So she exits the room and closes the door, and blows out the candle on the end table.  
She slips between the covers, staring up into the darkness before she sits again. She pulls aside the curtains, and a rectangle of white light slides into the room.  
She snuggles back under the covers and is soon claimed by sleep.  
She does not dream.


End file.
